


The Meadow Bride

by MaxBetta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, F/M, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxBetta/pseuds/MaxBetta
Summary: Sandor Clegane awakens after being left for dead by Arya Stark. As part of his new living arrangement in "The Meadow", he must marry and take position leading the community's small army. He chooses to fulfill his end of the bargain, but he's plagued by memories of Sansa Stark.





	The Meadow Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Arya leaves an injured Sandor. Sansa has escaped on her own after Joffrey's death.

 

The sun had set over an hour ago, and the evening air was thick with moisture. Sandor stood by a large oak tree, fussing with the laces on his brown leather breeches. It had taken nearly a fortnight for the seamstress to make a groom’s outfit big enough for him, nobody in their small community was as large as he was. With the exception of the beige tunic being a bit tight in the shoulders, the rest of the ensemble was surprisingly comfortable. Still, it felt odd knowing that he was about to be married.  He had never even considered marriage as part of his life’s plan. He had accepted that his appearance was grotesque, evident by the looks that people gave him in passing, and had come to terms with the fact that he was completely and utterly alone and always would be.

What an interesting turn of events this had been, to be waiting by a large tree for his bride to join him. A bride whom he had never met. He wore a cloak that had been fashioned out of a drapery panel, his house sigil embroidered on the back. He would place the cloak on the shoulders of his bride as part of the wedding ceremony. He had placed his cloak on a woman once before, but that was under a different set of circumstances. He subtly shook his head, forcing himself to leave thoughts of his past behind. There was no point in dwelling on what could never be. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, once again taking a look around for any sign that his bride was near. He had been waiting for quite some time and wanted to get it over with. He had agreed to the conditions of the elders only in order to buy himself some more time, until he could come up with a better plan. He hadn’t chosen to be here, after all...that decision had been made for him.

 

 

* * *

 

**One Month Earlier**

 

Sandor awoke, eyes stinging, throat dry, all alone in an unfamiliar chamber. The last memory he had was that of Arya Stark leaving him for dead. He had begged her to kill him but she wouldn’t, so instead, he was sprawled out on a strange bed, feeling like death anyway. A glance around the room gave no indication of where he was, but the various empty medicine bottles on the table beside him gave a feeling of calm. If someone wanted to harm him, why would they bother giving him medicine? He tried moving an arm, then a leg, then his other leg. There was very little movement, but substantial amounts of pain. A large piece of fabric was wound around one of his meaty thighs. He was about to unravel it to inspect his injury when a heavy set woman barreled through the open door.

“Oh Gods. He’s awake!  Come and see, he’s awake!”

 

Suddenly a rush of half a dozen women came into the room, happily clasping their hands together and uttering gasps of joy. Sandor tried to utter a word, wanting desperately for them to shut up, but his throat was so dry that all he could muster was an unintelligible croak.

 

“Don’t try to speak, dear, it will only make your throat hurt worse. I thought you weren’t going to make it, I did. You must have the blessings of both the old gods and the new to make it back from where ye been.” Her cheeriness made Sandor endlessly uncomfortable. “Just a wee bit longer now and you’ll be able to walk again. Then you can meet the elders.” She took a horn of water from one of the other ladies and brought it to his lips. “Drink slowly now, not too fast.”

 

Sandor swallowed down a few gulps of water, then attempted to speak again. “Where in seven hells am I?”

 

She smiled and set the water down on the table next to him. “Why, you’re in the the Meadows, dear. We’re a small group of folk, but we do nicely for ourselves...and we’re so glad to have you as part of our little community.” She pulled his fur blanket up further toward his shoulders. “Now you just take a rest and when you’re well enough you can meet the rest of the folk.” The women shuffled out of the room as Sandor allowed his heavy eyelids to close, slowly drifting into a deep sleep.

 

Within a fortnight, Sandor had managed to get himself up and out of bed and was able to walk up and down the halls of the small castle, occasionally venturing outside for some much needed fresh air. He had insisted on no more milk of the poppy, and it had made all the difference in the world. He no longer slept the day away, he could now go on short walks or at the very least read a book. He was informed one morning that he would be expected to meet with the elders that day since he was well enough to be up and about. When the time came, he grabbed a walking stick that he’d carved from a tree branch he found on one of his walks and made his way down the corridor to the meeting room. He was greeted heartily with handshakes, all of the men’s hands smaller than his, and he took a seat in the only available chair. The people of the Meadows had been kind to him, no doubt, but this was not where he wanted to be. Once he was well enough, he wanted to leave, and he explained that to them, in a rare attempt to be courteous.

 

The group of five men looked back and forth at one another, occasionally whispering into each other’s ears, when the leader, a stout silver-haired man, finally spoke a few minutes later.

 

“Clegane, I am delighted by your honesty, but I am afraid we cannot allow you to leave.”

 

Sandor could feel the anger building inside of him, a burning sensation that started in his gut and heated him all the way to his neck. “Why the fuck not?”

 

The men were taken aback by his sudden change of attitude, but without delay, the leader spoke once more. “You see, when one of our hunting parties found you, you were very near death. We put a great deal of time and effort into healing you. And the medicines, well they are quite expensive. And the food...do you have any idea what it costs to feed a man your size?  I’ve had horses that ate less.”

 

Sandor kept his tongue, but his breath was coming faster and he could feel his face flushed with rage. What did these people want from him? He had no money, no lands, absolutely nothing to offer them.

 

“The way we see it, Clegane, a debt is owed, but I think you’ll find the repayment to be quite beneficial.”

 

Sandor muttered a heated, “Go on.”

 

“What we would like is for you to take post as the commander of our small army. Our men are skilled hunters, but they lack the training for battle. We believe you could teach them, lead them. And in exchange, you would be given a wife, and you would enjoy the prosperity of being a resident of the Meadows. What do you say to that?”

 

Sandor wanted to reach across the heavy wooden table and put his fist through the man’s throat, but he decided on a better option. He would agree to their ridiculous request, but only until he could come up with a way out.

 

Through gritted teeth, he gave them the answer they wanted.

 

“Fine.”

 

* * *

  
  


## The Ceremony

 

The evening sky was clear enough that the stars were easily seen sparkling overhead. Once again wiping the sweat from himself, Sandor was deep in thought. What if he stayed? After all, there was nothing for him anywhere else. He had no family, no friends. He thought about Sansa Stark often, but last he had heard she was married to the Imp. If he left, he would be all alone. But, if he stayed, he would have a wife, and a position, and possibly a family one day, something he had never even allowed himself to dream of.

 

Glancing around at the crowd that had assembled to witness his marriage, he took notice of the children, faces glowing with excitement. Some of them held glass jars with candles inside in order to help illuminate the outdoor ceremony. There were also a few torches stuck in the ground and about a half dozen lanterns hanging from tree branches overhead. The elders had wanted to build a large outdoor fire, but Sandor had talked them out of it. He rubbed his freshly trimmed beard and ran his hand through his combed hair, he couldn’t help but speculate what his bride would look like. What if she was covered in warts, or a dwarf of some kind? He wondered if she had red hair...in fact, he hoped she didn’t. Seeing red hair would remind him too much of the young girl, who was now a married woman, whom he would never see again. He raked one foot through a nearby patch of grass...he was barefoot because the boots he’d been found in were too damaged to wear and nobody in the community had feet as large as his, so he couldn’t even borrow a pair of shoes for the occasion.

 

He was pondering the ridiculousness of his situation when he felt a small, soft hand, soothingly warm, slip into his. He looked to see a woman, head covered with a dark charcoal colored veil that hid her face and hair. She was wearing a grey silk gown that had silver embroidery on the bodice. Her skin, that he could see, was like fresh cream, and her arms were dusted with tiny freckles. She smelled of lavender and, oddly, lemon.  He heard a distant throat clearing and glanced to see the officiant signaling him that it was time to begin the ceremony. Still holding the woman’s hand, he walked with her toward their destination, only a few short steps away. When they stopped to face the officiant, the head elder stepped between Sandor and his bride, lifting her veil, a custom that had been carried on for generations. Sandor couldn’t see her face until the man finally stepped away, and he found himself astonished, eyes wide with shock. It was her. Sansa Stark. She was a grown woman and looked so different from when he had last seen her. Her coppery lengths had grown into a deep auburn, and she was at least half a foot taller. Her eyes were the same, though...an alluring shade of blue. He had often found comfort in those eyes, stealing glances in the past, but now she was here, right in front of him. No, this wasn’t right. He couldn’t do this to her. He grabbed both of her wrists gently and pulled her close.

 

“Sansa, I don’t know how you ended up here, but you don’t have to do this. There’s no need. If they're forcing you, I'll kill them.”

 

She looked straight into his eyes, as sure as ever. “I was kept a secret from you, but you were not kept secret from me. I knew it was you all along. I am here by choice. I asked to be your bride.”

 

Sandor sighed with frustration, he wasn’t getting through to her. “But Sansa, you don’t realize what you’re doing. I have nothing. You deserve better.”

 

Sansa straightened her posture, visibly agitated, but trying her best to maintain her ladylike behavior. “I deserve a man who is brave and who protects me, cares for me, and treats me like a lady. I am not a little girl anymore. I am a grown woman, and I know what I want, and what I want is to be your wife.”

 

What could he possibly say to that?  Nothing. He gave a brief nod, one corner of his mouth curling up into what almost looked like a smile, and the ceremony began.

 

They were wed that night, under the stars, her wearing a gown the color of a wolf, him bringing her under his cloak of protection. But who were they kidding...she was under his protection long before she became his wife. Always had been.


End file.
